


The World's Lamest Spies

by Mellow_Yellow



Series: Adventures in Babysitting [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut, housesitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2107125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellow_Yellow/pseuds/Mellow_Yellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey thinks housesitting is bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World's Lamest Spies

Housesitting was kind of bullshit. The Gallaghers didn’t have any pets or snazzy houseplants that needed watering. There was nothing anyone would want to steal. Mickey didn’t get why he and Ian had dragged their asses across the neighborhood, in the snow, just to sit on the Gallagher couch on a Friday night. He didn’t get why they had to stay there the whole weekend, either.

“Sideways babysitting,” Ian explained, patiently, but also for the fourth time. “Fiona doesn’t trust Debs and Carl on their own, and even though Lip took Liam for the weekend, we’re watching the house so we can also watch the kids.”

“What possible trouble can your brother and sister get in to?” Mickey said, hearing the whine in his own voice but feeling too irritated to let it go. “Aren’t they like seven years old or something?”

“Swing and a miss,” Ian said with a slight roll of his eyes. “Twelve and thirteen. And Debbie’s running with these weird skanky girls, and Carl’s been seeing this hobo girl with, like, nineteen brothers and sisters.” He paused, seeming to hear his own words. “Jesus. They can’t have the house to themselves while Fiona’s out of town.” His voice had an air of finality to it, and Mickey slumped further in the couch, sulking.

He would never tell Ian, but he had quasi-plans for them for the weekend. He’d happened into some Blackhawks tickets that week (more like beaten them out of some smackhead who couldn’t pay up when Mickey came to collect, but whatever, semantics) and he’d been looking forward to surprising Ian with them. He wanted to chill outside the Milkovich house for once, now that the other boy was more or less on the upswing. Not on a date, because dates were gay and lame. Just a hang out, just a couple of dudes hanging out who also happen to fuck. It had felt like a genius idea.

But apparently those plans were fucking toast, he thought with a scowl. Fucking housesitting.

Beside him, Ian reached out and ruffled Mickey’s hair, then palmed the top of his head like a basketball with a wide hand and bobbed it from side to side, gently. Mickey glared forward, not amused at what had become one of Ian’s favorite past times: reminding Mickey that he was smaller than him.

Mickey crossed his arms, refusing to get drawn into a wrestling match because that was obviously what Ian wanted, a chance to pin him to the couch. So he allowed the head-palming to continue briefly, finally huffing out, “Could you get your giant hand off my head please, asshole?”

Ian laughed but he stopped bobbing Mickey’s head around, instead using the pressure to turn Mickey to face Ian, moving his head like a puppet.

“Think of it like a mini-vacation,” Ian said. He leaned forward so their foreheads were almost touching. “A weekend away from the baby and Svetlana and Mandy.”

“In the same shitty neighborhood, at your sister’s shitty house, with your brother and sister here the whole time.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s hard to believe it’s really happening.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Ian finally released Mickey’s head and wrapped both arms around Mickey’s body, trapping his arms at his sides. Ian squeezed a little, grinning. “I know. I bet this is what celebrities feel like.”

“You feel like a fucking boa constrictor, man,” Mickey corrected, trying to free his arms, but the other boy held his grip, still grinning.

Ian had been especially cuddly recently, but in this weird, dominant way. Mickey didn’t hate it. He kind of liked being manhandled by Ian, even if he would take that information to his fucking grave. Ian leaned forward and rubbed his nose against Mickey’s, who huffed, because come on, there were limits.

Mickey knew he should squirm away, remind Ian that this wasn’t fucking San Francisco and that kind of casual affection didn’t fly here, especially not in his sister’s living room where his siblings could walk in on them at any second.

But Ian seemed so happy in that second, grinning like a goofball right up close to Mickey’s face. And it made Mickey think of a time when Ian didn’t want anyone to touch him, not even Mickey, especially not Mickey, when he was lying in bed for weeks. So Mickey forced himself to exhale.

“Fuck you,” he said mildly, relaxing in Ian’s arms. He felt Ian loosen his grip, and Mickey seized the opportunity to bring his arms free and rest them, somewhat awkwardly, on Ian’s shoulders. “Sideways babysitting, huh?”

“Stealth babysitting, even,” Ian said with a smirk. “Like we’re spies.” 

“The world’s lamest spies.”

“Exactly.”

Mickey let himself grin at Ian, and he was just about to lean forward and kiss the weirdo when there was a scoffing noise behind him.

“Can you guys not make out in the living room? It’s common space,” Debbie said.

“Yikes, attitude,” Ian said, pulling slightly away from Mickey but keeping a hand on his knee. Mickey allowed it, even as he felt himself blush like a total tool.

“I’m just saying, it’s disrespectful. Other people sit there sometimes too,” she said, and man, this kid sounded way snottier than the earnest, redheaded nerd Mickey always pictured when he thought of Ian’s younger sister.

Now that Mickey was looking at her, he saw she had more makeup on than usual. A lot of makeup.

“What’s with the disguise?” he said, motioning at her face. “You on the run from the law?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a date,” she said.

“Who with?” Ian asked casually.

“Matty’s taking me out,” Debbie replied.

“Oh, the pizza guy, right?” Ian said, still casual. “How old was he again?” Mickey had to struggle to keep a straight face, because Ian was subtle as a brick to the head.

“He’s not that much older,” Debbie protested. 

“How much not that older?” Ian asked suspiciously.

“You sound just like Fiona.”

“If he’s not that much older, just tell me how old he is.”

“Why do you care? You’re not dating him.”

Mickey pulled away from Ian completely now, leaning into the couch and feeling annoyed. So his Friday night was officially hockey-free, and was instead consisting mostly of listening to Ian and his sister bicker. Fantastic.

At that moment, the front door slammed and Carl came barreling inside.

“You guys seen the snow?” he asked in a rush. 

Mickey sat up. “It still coming down out there?”

“Hell yeah man, there must be at least two feet by now,” Carl said, going to the window to look out. He shed his hat and coat, which were covered in snow.

Just then, Debbie’s phone chirped. She looked down, reading the text message, and then her face nearly melted. “Oh no,” she muttered to herself, typing a response faster than Mickey had ever seen anyone text message, before looking up and out the window in horror. “Oh no.”

“What’s wrong, Debs?” Ian asked.

“Matty says the movie theaters are closing because of the snow,” she said. The phone chirped again, and she read it, her mouth twisting downward. “‘Let’s just hang out next week,’” she read out loud. She dropped to the phone to her side.

“That sucks,” Ian said. Debbie snapped her head up to glare at him.

“Don’t lie, you hate Matty just like Lip does,” she bit out. Mickey felt his own eyebrows rise. He didn’t remember Debbie being this argumentative. 

Debbie looked murderous, and Ian looked a little lost, and sad. Mickey was hit with an overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around the younger boy, but he fought it. He worried about suffocating Ian with this powerful need to protect, to take care of him, and he tried to his best to not let it overtake their entire relationship. It was just an argument with his sister, Mickey told himself. No need to helicopter parent, things were fine. It made him feel off-kilter, the realization that he wanted nothing more than to step in and make things better for Ian. Jesus but he was a pussy anymore, ever since this bipolar noise blew into their lives like a hurricane.

Mickey remembered Ian’s first depressive episode the way you remember being blackout drunk, and not in a good way. His recall of those weeks is patchy, almost like his brain is trying to protect itself from the memories. What he remembered most clearly was how surprised everyone was that he was willing to take care of Ian at all.

Mandy had cornered him in the kitchen once, giving that classic Mandy expression of aggression and suspicion, blocking his path from the fridge back into his bedroom. He was balancing a sandwich on a plate in one hand (that he knew Ian would refuse to eat but fuck, he had to keep up the theater that maybe the dickhead would stop trying to starve himself or Mickey would go fucking crazy) and a can of mango juice in the other, and he didn’t have time for this shit.

“You want to get the fuck out my way?” he said gruffly. 

Mandy tossed her hair with a defiant shake of her head, crossing her arms. “What the fuck kind of point are you trying to prove?”

Mickey had honestly been at a loss. “Is this like a riddle or something?”

“You already came out to Dad, it’s not like you need to send him an even bigger fuck you.” She rolled her eyes. “I think you made your point already, Mickey.”

“Made my point—jesus, what the fuck are you talking about?” he said, frustrated and anxious to get back to Ian. He tried to shoulder past her. “Move.”

She stood firm. “Why are you doing this?” She gestured with her chin over her shoulder in the general direction of Mickey’s room, where Ian lay virtually catatonic.

“I still don’t know what you mean,” he shot back impatiently. And he really didn’t. He’d never really considered himself a real nurturer-caretaker type. Sure he was protective, and he lost his temper when he thought the handful of people he cared about were hurt, but the idea of taking care of someone weaker than him had always made him feel itchy, if the idea had even come to him at all. 

And it wasn’t like he hadn’t had the opportunity. When his mom was sick from shooting up, when his dad would drink himself into a tunnel on the first few anniversaries after Mickey’s mom died and could barely get off the couch, when Mandy was letting that fucking Kenyatta asshole slap her around. He had wanted to beat the shit out of someone, but it had never really occurred to him to take care of any of them when they wouldn’t take care of themselves.

With Ian, though, he’d stepped into the role without even deciding to.

“Why didn’t you let Fiona take him home?” Mandy kept demanding insistently.

Mickey’s kneejerk reaction was rage. He felt it bubbling in his throat. But then he looked down at the sandwich on the plate in his hand, and he swallowed, and suddenly the familiar anger eased back down his chest.

His sister was still looking at him, and her eyes were pleading now: Explain it to me. Tell me what you’re doing. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.

And Mickey could only look dumbly back at her. He was bad with words on a good day, but he had no idea how to explain the complex and yet startling simple pull to take care of Ian.

“He’s fucking family,” Mickey said after a while, because that was all he had, even though it wasn’t the whole truth. Mandy finally let him push through and returned to his bedroom.

Opening the door, he was hit with the stale combination of body odor and sweat and unclean clothes that sat like a second presence in the room, next to the shape of Ian lying preternaturally still in the bed.

Mickey sat down gently on the edge of the bed.

“Dude, you smell like a foot,” Mickey said. He still reached out and ran a hand through Ian’s greasy hair. “You gotta shower soon, before you burn a hole through the sheets.”

Ian had just leveled his blank, heavy gaze on him. He let out a sigh, but he didn’t tell Mickey not to touch him either, so at the time, he remembered taking it as a victory.

Now, Mickey talked himself down from the ridiculous urge to protect Ian from his little fucking sister, and instead watched him try to comfort Debbie, who was having none of it. “Well, you can just stay and have dinner with us,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “We were just about to order pizza, hopefully we’ll catch them before the snow make them stop delivering. We can watch a movie.”

Debbie sat on the edge of the couch with a huff. “This sucks. Everything sucks.”

“Maybe it’s for the best, though,” Ian said. Mickey was just an observer, but he could already see Ian’s misstep. Debbie was watching Ian warily as he forged ahead. “I mean, this guy’s way too old for you anyway, maybe a little space isn’t a bad thing.”

"Don't act like you know him," Debbie said loudly, pushing Ian's hand off her shoulder. Her face was getting red from anger. "You don't know him. You don't even really know me anymore."

Ian shook his head. "Come on Debs, don't say that."

"It's true! You're never around, and now you just come in like you think you can be Fiona all of a sudden?" she practically hissed.

"I'm not trying to be Fiona," Ian insisted, but Debbie cut him off.

"Yes you are! That's all you or Lip try to do, is act like you're in charge. But you're not! You guys aren't my parents!" Debbie's voice had risen to a shriek, and Mickey's head was aching, and Ian looked pained.

Mickey couldn't take it anymore. “Jesus, lay off him.” He wanted to let Ian handle it, but the conversation was obviously spinning out. “At least you have people who care whether you hang out with some pervert who’s almost twice your age, for fuck’s sake. Consider yourself way luckier than a bunch of other South Side girls.”

Debbie opened and closed her mouth, like she was astonished that Mickey would gang up on her with Ian. “God, you’re both so annoying!” she finally shouted, and got up to stomp upstairs to her room.

“Who the hell was that?” Mickey asked Ian, watching Debbie go, completely nonplussed.

“I don’t know, she looked a hell of a lot like my younger sister, though,” Ian said. He frowned. He exhaled loudly and turned to Carl, who had been an avid spectator to Debbie and Ian’s argument. “Can you order the pizza? Two larges, pepperoni, a liter of Pepsi. I’ve got the money.”

“Hell yeah!” Carl said. Pizza was a luxury, but Ian was clearly trying to buy his siblings’ love at this point, and Mickey couldn’t really blame him. 

He didn’t remember Mandy getting this suddenly attitude-y, but then, she’d always been kind of a bitch and they were only a year and a half apart anyway. He probably just never noticed. Damn youths.

He stood up and pulled on Ian’s elbow. “Come on, tough guy. Let’s chill upstairs.”

Ian let himself be pulled upstairs. They settled in Lip’s old room. Mickey pulled Ian until he was laying half on top of him, but he seemed distracted.

“You okay?” Mickey said after a minute. 

Ian shrugged and pressed his face into Mickey’s hair. “Yeah, I guess.”

Mickey wanted to comfort him, but he didn’t really know what to say. He felt so helpless around Ian anymore, especially when it came to cheering him up. He settled for running his hands up and down Ian’s back, trying to draw the tension out with each stroke.

“That feels good,” Ian murmured. He stretched until he could press his lips against Mickey’s, and Mickey lost himself in the kiss. He wasn't awesome with words, but he was good at this. He was good at telling Ian how he felt with his body.

Maybe housesitting wasn’t so bad, Mickey reasoned, as Ian pressed harder against him, his erection pushing against Mickey’s hip. At Mickey’s house, there were always people (usually loud Russian ones) and the baby (who was cool enough but jesus, the crying, always the crying), and the Gallagher house was usually even worse. But with Fiona away, and Liam with Lip at college all weekend, and Debbie off sulking while Carl inevitably got into trouble somewhere else in the house, him and Ian were almost getting some real privacy.

They made out for what felt like forever (just made out, neither even moving to jerk each other off, god was this what relationships were, just pressing against each other without desperately trying to fuck right away, because if it was, Mickey wasn’t nearly as irritated by it as he thought he would be), lips and tongues getting tangled until Mickey was so hard he was starting to ache.

He moaned and Ian got the hint, finally reaching down to unbutton Mickey’s jeans and wrap a hand at the base of his cock, starting to stroke. “You like that?” Ian asked against Mickey’s mouth, making Mickey groan a little. Ian didn’t talk dirty much but when he did, it made Mickey’s head spin.

Ian’s hand felt so good tangled in his hair and his mouth felt so nice and warm pressed against his neck and the feel of his other hand, wrapped firmly around Mickey’s cock like he mattered, it was all enough for Mickey to feel the beginning of the cascade, he was going to come so hard, he couldn’t fucking wait—

“Ian, the pizza’s here!” Carl’s voice boomed through the door, 

Ian’s hand went still on Mickey’s cock, and then, worse still, loosened. “No, no, no,” Mickey tried to protest, but Ian was already leaning up.

“Can’t you take care of it?” he called to Carl through the door.

“You need to pay the guy, I got three bucks on me and one’s covered in blood,” Carl said. Ian deliberated, then completely released Mickey’s still-hard cock and any hope Mickey had for an orgasm. Fuck.

Sorry, Ian mouthed at Mickey as he swung his legs from around Mickey’s waist.

“Come on, man,” Mickey said pleadingly, but Ian just shrugged apologetically. Mickey let his head drop to the pillow as Ian slipped out of the room. He stared at the ceiling, too irritated to even finish himself off.

“Yeah, fuck you, housesitting,” he grumbled.

He waited a while for his boner to subside. By the time he came downstairs to the smell of pizza wafting from the living room, he was cranky. To put it mildly. Cranky like he wanted to commit physical violence.

Ian was setting down plates on the coffee table and pouring pop into plastic cups. Debbie was texting on the couch and Carl was trying to help Ian by putting the pizza box on the table but he tripped at the last minute and Mickey leapt forward to grab it before all the pizza slid off onto the ground.

“Nice save, man,” Ian said, nodding at him. Mickey couldn’t help but scowl at the asshole, calmly serving out pizza like he hadn’t just left Mickey high and dry with an achy hard on fifteen minutes ago. He sat on the couch and crossed his arms, somewhat aware that this probably counted as pouting.

“I think I’m going to go to Holly’s,” Debbie said. She was idling near the front door now, jittery in a way that made Mickey wary.

Ian swiveled to pierce her with a look. “You’re not going anywhere, unless you want to freeze to death in the snow,” he said.

Mickey could see Debbie’s natural obedience and her newly burgeoning desire to rebel warring on her freckled face. 

“She just lives over on the West Side, it’s no big deal,” Debbie hedged.

“Jesus, just the West Side? Well alright then. Tell the gangbangers over there I said what up,” Mickey said with a roll of his eyes.

Ian was more direct. “It’s way too dangerous for you to go over there by yourself, not to mention with the snow.”

“You can’t make me stay here tonight,” she said.

Mickey couldn’t help but agree, and frankly all this teenage attitude was pissing him off. He was still technically a teenager, but this youthful rebellion was beyond him. The parenting magazine he’d found at the free clinic (and okay, maybe he’d stolen it and hid it amongst the gun and ammo magazines in the bathroom, and found himself increasingly engrossed in the articles on child care, so fucking sue him) had a whole section on teenagers acting out when things were unstable at home, and even though he felt like a dork, he couldn’t help checking off the signs he’d read about as he watched Debbie argue with Ian. 

It didn’t take a genius to figure out the dynamic he was looking at, although even Lip didn’t seem to recognize it yet. He wondered if any of the Gallaghers realized what a stabilizing force Ian had always been. Maybe it was easier to see it as an outside observer, but without Ian in the house, it was like watching a sailboat tilt and flounder to the side. The Gallaghers didn’t seem to know how to right themselves now that Ian was consumed with his own problems and couldn’t also shoulder the family’s problems like he used to.

“Debs, just stick around with us tonight,” Ian said, his voice going low and persuasive. Mickey recognized that voice, because he was often the recipient when Ian was trying to get him to go for a run, or to take it easy on Svetlana, or bond more with Yevgeny. It usually worked on him, but apparently it was a lot less effective when you used it on someone who a) didn’t want your dick almost all the damn time, and b) was also your sister.

“I’ll be back early,” Debbie was saying, wrapping her scarf around her neck and going for her coat. Ian stood up, going to where Debbie was getting ready to go out.

“Come on, I don’t want you going out in this,” he said.

“You’re not in charge!” Debbie burst out. “You can’t show up after months and just boss me around!” There was the crux of it all, Mickey realized silently. It was probably only a matter of time before one of the kids brought it up. 

“I’m not trying to boss you around, I just don’t want you getting shot and then freezing to death so you can hang out with your weird friends.” Ian spun around, pointing a finger at Carl. “Carl, no ninja stars at dinner.”

Carl stuffed the stars back into his pocket, and Mickey was pretty impressed, because how in the fuck did Ian see the kid messing with weapons when his back was turned. 

“When did you get so bossy?” Carl grumbled.

“I’m not bossy,” Ian said (Mickey couldn’t help but agree with Carl, Ian was the bossiest little shit he knew) before turning back to Debbie. “Debs, take your coat off. Just have some pizza.”

“I’m on a diet,” she shot back. Ian threw his head back at that statement, and behind him Carl was still on his tangent.

“Yes you are bossy, you’re worse than Lip and Fiona,” Carl said, drawing Ian’s attention away from Debbie as he fingered the ninja stars in his pocket.

“Carl, no ninja stars!” Ian shot back, frustrated.

“Get off my ass!” Carl threw his hands up in exasperation.

Debbie took advantage of Ian’s distraction to pull the door open, letting in a gust of freezing air. “I’m leaving.”

Ian stepped forward to slam the door shut. “Goddamnit Debbie, no you’re not.”

He sounded panicked, and overwhelmed, and Mickey didn’t remember him ever being this out of control with his family before. He knew Ian used to be the younger kids’ favorite, he’d been like a damn snake charmer, always able to get them to behave when Fiona or Lip would’ve just resorted to threats and yelling. Now, Ian seemed out of his element, looking back and forth between Carl and Debbie. Goddamn teenagers. Mickey was powerless not to step in.

“Would everyone just calm the fuck down,” Mickey erupted. He’d been quiet until now, and his sudden anger made the other three freeze. He went over and yanked Debbie’s coat off and stood in front of the door, blocking her way out with his body. “Debbie, it’s fucking negative-twenty degrees outside and you’re in a goddamn belt.”

“It’s a mini-skirt,” Debbie corrected under her breath, but she seemed uncertain. She and Carl may not be afraid of Ian, but they still seemed nervous around Mickey, and he wasn’t afraid to exploit that advantage.

“What the fuck ever. Don’t be stupid. Eat some pizza and take it easy on your brother.” He nudged her back toward the couch with his hip, none too gently. Debbie let herself stumble, glaring at Mickey with hurt in her eyes, and he rolled his.

“Fuck, careful, Mickey!” she said angrily, exaggeratedly gripping the sofa for balance.

Mickey snorted. “Nice performance. Be sure to thank the academy in your acceptance speech.”

Carl chuckled in glee as Debbie was lectured, and Mickey spun on him. He held his hand open. “You. Give me the damn ninja stars or I swear to god,” he started. 

He watched the kid deliberate, then relent and come over to hand the three stars to Mickey. Mickey accepted with one hand and smacked him over the head (lightly, but man, was it satisfying) with the other.

“Now everyone fucking sit down and shut up. I want pizza,” he said. He marched back and threw himself on the couch, taking three slices of pepperoni on to his plate and taking a ravenous bite.

There was a brief silence as Debbie hesitated, obviously cowed but unwilling to show it. Ian gave her a sympathetic smile. Mickey almost snorted, but if Ian wanted to play off Mickey’s bad cop with his own good cop angle, Mickey wouldn’t stop him.

“You can pick out the movie,” he offered.

“Fine, but I want a chick flick,” she said, flouncing over to the cabinet under the TV. 

“God fucking damnit,” Mickey and Carl groaned at the same time.

“I could handle some rom-com right now,” Ian agreed placatingly. 

Debbie paused at Ian’s words, then deliberately picked a different movie. She pulled the case out, and Mickey saw explosions and robots on the cover, and Ian rolled his eyes at her obvious defiance. No chick flicks for them tonight, then. Debbie could be a stubborn little shit, Mickey decided, not unappreciatively. 

Ian settled onto the couch beside Mickey, Carl grabbing pizza (no plate or napkin, god that kid was an animal, Mickey thought, as he wiped his own hand clean on his grungy jeans) and sitting on Mickey’s other side, and Debbie popped in the DVD before settling gingerly on the edge of a lounge chair. 

Debbie was ignoring Mickey purposefully, and Mickey tried not to feel a little annoyed, because he’d always had a soft spot for the littlest redhead and he felt almost betrayed that she would turn on him so easily. Again: fucking teenagers.

As the movie started playing (it was something with robots and also a really pretty dark-haired girl, Mickey didn’t recognize her, but then he never knew anything about current movies or actors to the point that Ian called him a grumpy old man, and Mickey pretended like he minded being teased when really he loved it more than anything), Ian curled up on the couch beside Mickey. His feet pressed into the side of Mickey’s legs, and Mickey relaxed under even that slight, warm pressure.

None of them talked much at first, the younger kids hanging on to their mutinous expressions for a while at first, Mickey and Ian comfortable to sit in companionable silence. After a while, Mickey sneaked a look at Debbie and saw her face start to soften. Carl had calmed down too. He guessed that was an upside to kids: they were kids. Problems passed quickly in their worlds. He could almost envy them that.

As the snow continued to fall outside, the living room felt increasingly cozy, the smell of pizza and the sound of the dumb robot movie plot (although Mickey saw now that they were actually more car-robots, but from space—what the fuck?) wrapping them all in a soothing cocoon. Mickey tilted so he was leaning more against Ian’s body. He felt a little sleepy. Man, this was a sad commentary on what his life had become, nearly falling asleep at ten on a Friday night, ensconced in his boyfriend’s living room watching movies with a couple of spunky (yet snotty) little tweens. He blinked sleepily, unable to make himself get too worked up about it.

There was a sudden hacking sound to his right. Mickey startled to alertness and turned to see Carl turning white, then blue, his eyes wide as he clawed at his own throat, choking on pizza. 

God, this night, Mickey thought to himself, even as he moved into action immediately.

Debbie froze, Ian fluttered his hands around Carl’s shoulders (didn’t that fucker learn anything about being calm in a crisis in ROTC, Mickey noted in annoyance, watching Ian totally fold under pressure), and Mickey wrapped both arms around Carl’s chest under his ribs. 

He constricted his arms once, twice, and he was wondering if maybe he was doing it wrong when, with a nearly perfect “ptuie” sound, Carl hacked up a half-chewed chunk of pizza that splatted onto the ground.

“Jesus man, chew your food!” Mickey said, releasing Carl. “What are you, a duck?”

Ian and Debbie stared at him, and Carl turned around, his eyes watering. The way they were watching him was freaking me out. “What?” he demanded. “Jesus, what?”

Carl leaned suddenly against him, like he wanted Mickey to hug him. Mickey held his hands up, a little panicked at the contact. “Hey, chill,” he said, bringing a hand down to give the kid an awkward tap on the back. “It’s okay, little dude.”

Everyone seemed shaken, and it took Mickey a while to appreciate how scared they actually were. This year had been rough for them in terms of health issues, Mickey supposed. Ian wrapped an arm around Carl’s waist, who was still pale and trembling as he leaned back from Mickey finally, and Debbie was watching with wide eyes, making her look her age for the first time that night.

“You saved him, man,” Ian said, reaching out to squeeze Mickey’s shoulder. Fucking Gallaghers, man, always making a huge deal out nothing, Mickey wanted to scoff, but it was tough when Ian looked so wrecked. Jesus christ.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, because he hated seeing Ian so worked up.

“Seriously,” Ian said, sounding choked up. Ian’s grip was tight on his shoulder. Someone needed to lighten the fucking mood already, for god’s sake.

“I guess some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them,” Mickey said, smiling smugly. Ian cocked his head. Debbie was the first to roll her eyes. “I saw it on a calendar once. I had no idea it was written about my life.”

Mickey saw Carl start to grin a little. Mickey batted him softly on the back of the head. “You’re welcome, shithead. For saving your life. Because I did that.”

By now, even Ian was starting to calm down. He gave Mickey a shove before letting go of his death grip on his shoulder. 

Mickey puffed out his chest. “Bask in it,” he said. “Bask in my glory.”

“Alright, don’t let it go to your head,” Ian said, rolling his eyes and settling back with his pizza.

“Let what go to my head? The fact that I’m a real live American hero?”

“We get it.”

“The fact that I saved a life?”

Ian groaned. Carl and Debbie were giggling now. “Give it a rest, for the love of god,” Ian said. “Carl, go get a towel and clean up the floor, it’s gross.”

The tension in the room began to ease as Carl went and came back from the kitchen with a damp towel. Then they all went back to eating pizza and watching the movie, Carl sitting in between Ian and Mickey and taking noticeable care to slowly chew each bite. Debbie casually sat down on Ian’s other side, like she wanted to be closer to him. Mickey regarded the two kids squeezed tight on either side of Ian, and he just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Kids were such weaklings. Couldn’t hold a grudge for shit.

Mickey let his arm drape around the back of the couch, his fingers coming to rest lightly against the back of Ian’s neck. Ian didn’t acknowledge the subtle touch, but he leaned back slightly to press into it, and Mickey felt himself smiling like a loopy maniac.

The credits rolled on the movie (needed more explosions, Mickey thought, but other than that it wasn’t completely terrible), and between him and Ian, Carl glanced up at Mickey.

“Thanks again, Mickey,” he said quietly. It was on the tip of Mickey’s tongue to make another joke, but Carl’s eyes were earnest. What was it with kids, Mickey wondered. They were so fucking vulnerable, like fucking glass wandering around, getting hurt, letting all their emotions show on their face, totally exposed.

He nudged Carl’s knee with his own knee.

“No problem,” he said. And then, because he was a total sap these days, he added, “I would never let anything happen to you guys.”

Then he felt embarrassed, because the three Gallaghers were giving him those moony looks again and he didn’t know why, because obviously he wouldn’t let anything happen to them. It was his only real skill, his protectiveness. He may only feel this new, intense need to care take for Ian, but still. Didn’t mean he wanted any of the other Gallaghers to choke to death, either. Except maybe Lip.

Ian was especially generous in bed later, where they’d commandeered Lip’s old room and did their best to stay quiet. They’d waited until Carl and Debbie had gone to bed, too suspicious that one or both of them would try to sneak out if they left them alone (damn but sideways babysitting was turning out to be just as much work as normal babysitting) and when they undressed, Ian took his time making Mickey come apart.

Mickey was gasping as Ian sucked his cock like it owed him money. “Jesus, where did this come from? Yeah, right there—fuck,” Mickey babbled.

Ian paused, pulling his mouth off Mickey’s cock head with a wet pop. “My hero deserves a decent blowjob,” Ian said with a wicked grin. Mickey let his head fall back, both hands tangled in Ian’s hair.

Fucking housesitting, he thought dimly to himself, and then he let Ian take him away.

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a few more fics planned for this series, including a couple prompts, so I hope you're all still into some more parenting/babysitting fic. Then I've got a slightly darker AU planned that I'm going to get to work on in a few weeks. So drink in the fluff while you can, you guys! As always, hits/kudos/comments are the shit, and I love you dudes.


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